


A Letter to the Dead

by HumsHappily



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: After Patroclus Dies, Internal Monologue, Letter to the dead, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13081548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: "He was more than a brother. More than a friend. He was a companion to my heart, the match to my soul, and I shall never know the likes of him again.And he is gone now."





	A Letter to the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a uni assignment, decided to post here because I'm rather pleased with it. I realize it's a bit different from my norm, but I still hope you like it!

It matters not who reads this letter,for whomsoever that I wrote it for will remain between my internal mind and the minds of the gods. It matters not who knows now, whoever shall cast their judgement upon me and mine. I will leave these ashen scraps of parchment where they may fall, scattered upon the wind. They may sink into the blood and filth of battle, where they may be lost, as my love was lost to me. 

 

He was more than a brother. More than a friend. He was a companion to my heart, the match to my soul, and I shall never know the likes of him again. True perhaps, my thoughts were unclean with the way his skin glowed in the sun, glistening as he fought. With the stretch of his neck as he laughed, the strength in his arms and thighs as we sparred.Ever truer, perhaps, that my thoughts should never be cleansed again, for now they are stained with the blood of my one truest partner. I have sent him to his death as surely as if I had brought the sickle of death down upon him myself. I caused his death as surely as if it were my own arrowhead that pierced his flesh, as if I had thrust my own sword into his open chest. As if I had wielded the spear that brought him down myself, do I feel the shaft splinter in my hands, feel the warmth of his blood pour over my palms. I can hear the death in his moaning cry as it echoes in my head. 

 

His begging askance convinced me, and yet brought about his own conviction. Never could I say no to the one who knew me as well as he knew his own sword.I sent him clad in my own armor, chasing the ships back to Troy, the shades following him as they stretched his immortal thread taught.Menelaus brought to me his body, and I did lay down beside him begging for the dark of never ending night to take me then, weeping as I did over my love. I did beg the gods to take me, and they did refuse, despite my pleas for release from this predestined plan.

 

It matters not now. Nothing matters now. 

 

The world is grey. There is no light. The man known as Patroclus of Phthia, the son of Menoetius and Sthenele, I did die with. His blood stained my thighs as I cradled his body upon my lap for the last time. His last breaths I missed, but in the moments I held him, surrounded by the carnage of war, I could hear only his voice on the wind. I now hear his ghost on the winds beckoning me to stay, blaming me, setting me to live an entirety upon this earth to live with my sins. I wish to end this battle, the only battle I have ever sought to flee from, but my hands will not move. I must die with honor. I will go into battle. If I am to be without him, then I will be without life. To damn the man who slay him, I will fight and slay ten men more. The glory of fighting will cost me my life, as my stubborn pride cost Patrocolus his own. Had I fought, would I have been there to save him? To shield him as I would have, sacrificing my own skin for that of my love? It matters not. With his death my own heart was taken, ripped from my chest and set ablaze on a funeral pyre. My end is foreseen, if not by the seers then by the ghost that haunts me. I will fight until my sandals drip with the blood of my enemies, until I am brought down with the force that befits me as warrior. The fate that I was promised, the fate that I chose as I wept and beat the ground, summoning even the sea nymphs with the sound of a broken heart. 

 

Patroclus of Phthia, son of Menoetius and Sthenele, I did die with you. Even now, as I stride for the battle field, I wish only to hear only the whispers of our stolen moments together. I wish I could feel once more the touch of your fingers upon my cheek, upon my chest. But they are gone, replaced with the harsh stinging wind as it throws my own guilt, my own fate back to me. 

You are gone. But it matters not. Nothing matters now, but the fate I seek out. The path I wear down to join you. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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